


A grave mistake

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don’t copy to another site, First Kiss, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, not slow burn except for the cremation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: If there’s any upside to faking your own death, surely it’s that you’re able to attend your own funeral. So Sherlock decides to disguise himself as a vicar. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity!





	A grave mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite love to my betas thejohnlockoutlet (who also britpicked) and 88thparallel. Without their support, this story wouldn't have happened. Also a special thank you to elldotsee for inspiring me to write again.

“Short version: not dead.”

Sherlock lets his coat dramatically flap in the wind that escapes through the entrance door, chin high and curls loose.

Wiggins blinks against the intruding light.

“I know you’re not dead, you daft bonehead,” he says. “You couldn’t execute the plan without me, remember?”

“You merely told a cyclist when to hit someone.”

“I stole EMC clothes for you!”

“And _inspected_ the medicine cabinet.”

“Perks of the job. Anyway, close that door, the light is giving me a headache and a tan. Bad for my reputation.”

Sherlock enters and takes in his surroundings. Smelly mattresses, empty syringes, stains - most likely pee - and small cracks that let in a bit of sunlight. He points to one, weirdly festive candle. “Squat goals!”

“Get to the point, Sherlock.”

“Your roomie is out, I suppose?”

“In a way, yes.”

Upstairs, then. The heroin of his own story.

“Good. You see, I have a party to attend, and I need your expertise.”

“Well, I’m almost out so you’ll have to get your own dealer.”

“Not that. I’m talking about your expertise in makeup applying.”

Wiggins takes a seat on a wonky chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you used to be a drag queen,” Sherlock says, indulging in Wiggins’ shocked expression. “I saw the old photographs on the bathroom wall of the Trapeze Bar.”

He was there putting up shelves, of course.

“They called me Miss Wig,” Wiggins admits.   

“No they didn’t.”

“Lady Get Wiggy With It.”

“Nope.”

Wiggins looks down. “Ratty Wigs,” he mumbles.

“Better.”

Wiggins stands up defiantly. “I used to party with Sharon Needles, you know.”

“No you didn’t.”

Wiggins bites his lip. “I stole her wallet once.”

Sherlock smiles. “Just get on with it, I’m expected to be somewhere in a few hours. How about contouring this face, so its shape changes?”

“You done your homework, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins says excitedly.

“ _And_ I brought a fake beard,” he says, holding up an old, grey-haired piece that helped him solve a Scientology case once. “I’ll still need to look like a man, just an entirely different one.”

“Right, take a seat. There’s no mirror, but I’ll be your eyes and hands,” Wiggins says.

The junkie puts his hand inside a tattered mattress that’s turned up against the wall, and digs out a staggering amount of makeup supplies. Not an _old_ hobby then, after all, Sherlock deduces. As Wiggins slaps two shades of foundation on him and starts sculpting a new man out of him, he closes his eyes.

John. John is all he sees.

He opens his eyes immediately, and focuses on Wiggins’ careful working. The beard is glued on meticulously. His hair gets slicked back mercilessly. A pair of glasses finishes off the look.

“No glitter, Mr. Holmes?”

“No! It’s not that type of party,” Sherlock says, getting up. “I’ll change here and keep my clothes with you for safekeeping. Of course, you’ll be aptly rewarded.”

“A hundred pounds.”

“Fifty.”

“Ninety.”

“Sixty. Five now, fifty-five after I get my clothes back.”

Wiggins shrugs. Sherlock takes off his Belstaff and throws a vicar outfit on over his suit.

“What on earth?” Wiggins says.

“I’m going to the party of a lifetime,” Sherlock says.

Wiggins looks none the wiser. Of course.

“My funeral.”

A shocked look crosses Wiggins features. “As the bloody vicar?”

“I was planning to go as a mourning widow, but my one black veil was in the laundry,” Sherlock says, shrugging.

Wiggins laughs. “Shouldn’t you be leaving the country instead?”

Well, yes. Sherlock should be preparing for his secret mission. Dismantling Moriarty’s network. _Boring._

“You only get one chance to attend your own funeral. It’s modern ghosting.”

“You’re bonkers. But very well then. Just one last touch to make you unrecognisable,” Wiggins says, and he stuffs two cotton balls in Sherlock’s mouth.

Bloody. Cotton. Balls.

“Fwenk you,” Sherlock says.

“Keep the cotton balls high enough in your cheek, and it won’t affect your speech,” Wiggins suggests.

Sherlock glares at him.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’ve never had balls in your mouth.”

Sherlock turns and angrily leaves the door open as he sashays away.

He’s quite pleased with himself, though. He looks a very different man in this makeup and clothing. The vicar outfit, he got as a gift from a very thankful drag king once. The Case of the Missing Penis never made it to the blog, sadly. And yes, the vicar outfit has a hideous, glittery rainbow on the inside, as part of a reveal. But he’s not planning a striptease - only a funeral.

Well, the actual planning was done by his mother. She took charge the minute she heard about his upcoming downfall. Sherlock rolls his eyes. So typical of mummy to insist on a church funeral, even for a fake death. Even one she’s not even attending. “I’d cry my eyes out,” she’d protested. “ _Laughing_.”

“Well, obviously”, Sherlock had told her. “It’s the Church of bloody England!”

But no. His parents are not attending. He’s still feeling slightly injured about it as he walks up to the church. But there, to his pleasant surprise, a large crowd has started to gather.

“Top of the mourning,” he greets an elderly aunt in passing.

She glares. No appreciation for puns. Pity.

As Sherlock steps nearer, he realises to his horror that most of these people are journalists and cameramen. Right. His reputation is still on the pavement of St Bart’s - _suicide of fake genius_. They’re vultures coming for the corpse.

And in the midst of it all, one man is speaking into the cameras.

“Yes, I was his close friend.”

Sebastian Wilkes. Banking on his death? Sherlock wades slowly but determinedly through the crowd.

“He helped me with a... work problem about a year ago,” Wilkes says, wiping a ‘Shad Sanderson’ embroidered cloth across his nose. “Sorry, I have a cold. Yes, no, is this lighting flattering at all?”

“It’s daylight, sir,” a reporter says. “Did Sherlock Holmes fabricate that case as well?”

“Now that I think about it, that could very well be,” Wilkes says. “He was always a right weirdo, that guy. A deviant in more than one sense, if you get my drift. A freak, and a fa--”

“The church is full!” Sherlock interrupts, panting. The journalists struggle to get their microphones closer to his face. “I’m afraid there’s no more room for you.”

“What?” Wilkes says, stunned.

“It’s a _vewy_ exclusive event, I’m _afwaid_ ,” Sherlock says, nearly swallowing a cotton ball. He frantically pushes the thing higher with his tongue. “You don’t have the right invite.”

“The right…”

“We even considered special wristbands with electronic currency in them,” Sherlock says into the cameras. “So people could buy souvenirs, holy wine, communion wafers …”

“Sir, sir!” the journalists yell over each other, trying to get his attention. “Mister vicar! What’s your name? Why did they choose you as the vicar? Over here!”

“I’m wearing Valentino,” Sherlock says, but the journalists frown in confusion. He sighs, and pushes Wilkes out of the crowd.

“Who are you? And why you and not this church’s regular vicar?” one reporter shouts.

“My name is vicar... Trevor. And why me? The bishop couldn’t make it,” he says, whispering: “Baptism. The Duchess had another one.”

A young, male correspondent blinks dazedly.

“It’s the biggest job I’ve done,” Sherlock says, trying not to roll his eyes. “But I won’t blow it. I’m a family friend, please note. I knew Sherlock when he was little. Brilliant child…”

Suddenly, he catches someone’s glare, way back in the crowd. Mycroft.

“... A real prodigy. Excuse me, I have to go,” Sherlock says, backing up. “Still have to iron my tippet before the service. The archbishop borrowed it. For a Halloween party.”

With a wink, Sherlock quickly disappears through a side door. Inside, people have spread out in small huddles among the pews. It’s a rather small church, he regretfully notes. Did mummy think few people would show up? Rude.

The first rows are empty except for a few distant family members. And… one more person. Sherlock recognises Molly’s silhouette, in the second row. That’s quite a familiar spot for a work colleague. She seems rigid and tense. Sherlock throws her a sideways look as he walks past her, but she doesn’t recognise him - good: his disguise works. Her mouth is a flat line. She looks bleak. Even though she knows he’s not really dead. Great acting, then. Sherlock smiles at her appreciatively, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Sherlock touches the altar tentatively as he eyes the large, closed casket, way back at the entrance. Filled with rocks, of course. “The only time you’ll ever… rock,” Mycroft had said with some distaste.

Speaking of, his brother is now striding through the aisle with wide steps and a face set to murder. Sherlock straightens his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for your lo--,” he manages, but Mycroft grabs him by the arm and drags him past the altar, into the shadows.

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft hisses near a giant cross depicting a dying Jesus. With impressive abs, Sherlock notices.

“It’s MY funeral!”

“Exactly!” Mycroft says. “You didn’t get an e-vite.”

“I wanted to put the fun in funeral, so to speak. Live… vicariously.”

Sherlock can see a vein almost popping in Mycroft’s forehead.

“You’ll blow your cover. You’re set to leave for Belarus tomorrow, for Christ’s sake.”

Mycroft pauses a minute, eyeing Jesus.

Looking vaguely unsettled, he directs his attention back to Sherlock, pronouncing each word slowly: “You’ll. Blow. Your. Cover.”

“No I won’t,” Sherlock says, pointing. “Look! Cotton balls in my cheeks!”

Mycroft exhales contemptuously. “I didn’t think you’d be this foolish.”

“Speaking of blowing covers,” Sherlock says, “shouldn’t you be looking a bit more… mournful?”

Mycroft straightens his suit jacket and sniffs. “I’m in character.”

Sherlock looks down. “Right. Of… Of course.”

Mycroft sighs and turns to the crowd. “Well, you’ve already talked to the press, so the damage is done. Now make the most of it. Or I’ll _actually_ put you in that casket.”

“It would save funeral costs,” Sherlock mumbles.

Mycroft nods curtly and walks up to the front row, where more family members have started to gather. Sherlock watches him shaking hands and accepting condolences, stiffly and politely. Right. How does one perform a funeral again? Where are the altar boys? Or was that only in Catholic churches? Sherlock looks around rather lost, walks up to the altar, fiddles with some paper - and then freezes.

Sitting right next to Molly now, is John.

_John._

Sherlock’s mouth runs dry at the sight of him. He’s - he’s not recognisable as himself. He’s a dark shadow, amidst mourners dressed in black. But those other people seem to be just playing dress-up. John _is_ the black, is the void, a fatal rock amidst a tiresome ocean.

Molly has put her hand on his knee and is whispering ceaselessly in his ear. But John lifts a hand and shakes his head, eyes closed, the lines in his face set to pure pain.

Sherlock averts his eyes. He’ll explain everything to John later, he’ll - he’ll understand. When Sherlock is back in a few months, and the initial pain has settled, they will surely laugh about it. Drinking tea in Baker Street. Everything will be fine.

Sherlock walks up to the pulpit. The last few attendees sit down, the crowd silences, and a few press photographers start clicking away.

To his relief, he notices a printed rundown of the funeral service by the microphone. The actual vicar, whom he temporarily locked up in the wine cellar, must have prepared it. Sherlock flips open the first page. He decides to ignore John and Molly’s side of the church, and addresses the other half.

“Welcome, everyone. We have come here today to remember before God our… well respected Church member? Sherlock Holmes,” he reads off the paper. “Consulting detective and brilliant mind, admired by even his greatest enemies…” he muses. Surely, he can go off script a little? This vicar clearly didn’t know the deceased very well.

He looks up, straight into the eyes of a very confused looking Lestrade. The detective inspector sits in fifth row, next to Mrs Hudson, who looks a sobbing mess. Great. Now even the non-John side isn’t safe.

Sherlock moves on to the introduction text. “God’s love and power extend over all creation. Every life, including our own, is precious to God... Good god, how long is this… Right… We can skip that.. Not necessary… I meant ‘good god’ respectfully of course… Praise Jesus etcetera.”   

In the corner of his eye, Sherlock notices John frowning, although he is really definitely ignoring him.

Maybe that’s the answer - he needs to make the service a little amusing, to cheer up John.

But how do you make a funeral amusing? Perhaps some music.

Sherlock flips a few pages further.

“Instead of the usual hymns, the family and friend...s have selected a few songs during which we can reflect upon the life of Sherlock Holmes. The first one shall be played while I… gather the coffin.”

Mycroft gets up and sends his iPhone bluetooth signal to a pair of speakers next to the altar.

Sherlock groans. No. Not ‘Tears in Heaven’, please.

Must be mummy’s choice.

_Would it be the same?_

He wheels the coffin just a tad faster down the aisle, while his estranged cousin carries a candle behind him. Some of the older people look rather shocked at his speed. An old aunt quickly tries to splash some holy water on the coffin in passing, but misses and nearly puts the candle out.

_If I saw you in heaven?_

Sherlock rapidly parks the coffin near the altar, does a quick sign of the cross over it, and pretends to be in deep thought while he reaches into his robes for his iPhone. He aims for the speakers.

‘Adagio for Strings’ by Barber starts playing now. That’s better. Played at Einstein’s funeral once upon a time. Sherlock smirks at Mycroft, whose ears redden.

Mycroft points his phone at the speakers again.

_Cause I know I don’t belong… Here in Heaven…_

Sherlock retorts with another zap.

_Get Spotify Premium for only 9.99 pou…_

Mycroft grabs Sherlock by the arm again and pushes him to the obscured part beneath Jesus, as Eric Clapton wails once more in the background.

“Stop dragging the vicar to the back of the church,” Sherlock hisses, “it makes me look unprofessional.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “You are the definition of unprofessional here, _vicar Trevor_. Just follow the script!”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll ruin your secret agent plan? Are you here as family, or as the government?”

Mycroft blinks. “Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s my funeral, I should get to pick the music.”

“The music is not for you!” Mycroft’s voice nearly rises too loud. Sherlock looks at the nave, where uncle Rudy is trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on.

“It’s for the people who mourn you,” Mycroft says, suddenly softer now. “Can’t you see that this is torture… for John?”

Mycroft tries to put his hand on Sherlock, but Sherlock yanks his arm away.

“John chose that song, you know,” Mycroft says, softer.

Sherlock turns his head to the side, refusing to meet his brother’s gaze. Why is it suddenly so hard to swallow?

“Let him say goodbye,” Mycroft whispers. “Properly.”

When there’s no response, Mycroft turns and leaves. But Sherlock can’t quite face the crowd yet. He finds that he needs to stand underneath the Jesus statue until his shaking is under control. He’s never been this shaken up - Mycroft is… right. This is a serious matter to John, at least so long as he really believes Sherlock is dead. And by dressing up, Sherlock has made it his responsibility to make sure this is a proper goodbye. The only one he can give him.

He reflects back on the moment he was lying on that pavement, only three days ago - keeping still, keeping his eyes open and unmoving as a dead body would. “Let me through,” he heard John say in desperation. “He’s my friend.”

_Time can break your heart, have you begging please…_

Damn you, Eric Clapton.

After the longest song in history, Sherlock returns to the pulpit and mechanically goes through the motions of a funeral service. He recites hymns. He covers the casket with a pall. He reads some Bible verses, makes the crowd say “Amen”. And then he reaches a part of the vicar’s outline that really catches his interest.

“And now,” he reads. “Friends and family will say a few words.”

Oooh, this will be good. This is what he came here for. The tributes. The compliments. The kind words - from people! Who knew him!

“First up,” he says, trying not to smile, “errr… Mycroft Holmes, representing the family.”

All right then. If his brother must.

Mycroft steps up to the pulpit, holding a piece of paper. Oh, Sherlock notes while he takes a seat. Seems rather short. Disappointing.

“The family is deeply saddened by the loss of our son and brother,” he starts. Sherlock sighs. How very _Mycroft_ to treat a eulogy as a press release. “He died too young, merely 33.”

Jesus. Was it really necessary to reveal his real age? Sherlock had kept it hidden quite successfully, and liked to believe he looked younger.

“He was a gifted violinist and a graduate chemist.”

A _graduate chemist_? Not too emotional, Mycroft, please.

“And though he had his flaws….” Mycroft pretends to choke up. “Sorry, I have to end it here.”

Sherlock glares at his brother, and walks back up to the microphone. “Next, Le.. Gregory? Lestrade.”

He sits down again as Lestrade takes the stage.

“Sherlock Holmes has insulted every bloody person in this church,” Lestrade begins. The crowd lets out a subdued chuckle. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at them - will this be a funeral service or a roast? This is not what he imagined.

“He made a fool out of me and the police force… many times,” Lestrade continues. Sherlock averts his eyes. So Lestrade believes he was a fraud, too, then. Good… That was the… The plan.

To make everyone believe he was a fake. And they… lapped it up, apparently. Sherlock pinches the palm of his hand. Good…. good, then.

“When he solved the cases, the solution suddenly seemed obvious. Bloody brilliant he was.”

Sherlock looks up. Lestrade scrapes his throat.

“This is for all you press parasites at the back. I worked with him, yes. And now he is disgraced. He’s…” Lestrade swallows. “He was my friend. He was a great man.”

He pauses.

“He was a good man.”

Sherlock’s mouth is open. Is that really what Lestrade thought of him?

Lestrade walks down a few steps, but gets stopped mid-track. It’s John. He’s standing stock still, shoulders stiff. Like a soldier, but his uniform is dark and handsome, his shirt and dress suit the darkest black. John shakes Lestrade’s hand, shortly. Lestrade avoids his eyes, mumbling “sorry”.

Then, John heads for the stage.

 _No._ Sherlock panics. John was not on the list.

John stands at the pulpit for a while, unmoving, silent. He seems stunned, staring into the gathered blackness of the crowd. He clears his throat repeatedly, looks down at his hands, then up again. Molly starts standing up, looking unsure, but he motions at her to sit down.

Finally, John speaks.

“I was there when he died.”

He sounds hoarse. Exhausted.

Something hurts in Sherlock’s chest. Like his heart is trying to escape. Like a trapped bird.

“My name is Doctor John Watson. I’m… I was Sherlock’s blogger, companion, colleague, and, he might say, his only friend. We know of course, that isn’t true.”

Sherlock stops breathing.

“Sherlock had many friends.”

John pauses, biting his bottom lip.

“I was introduced to him by one of them, Mike Stamford. Then I saw how close he was to his landlady, Mrs Hudson, like a mother almost. You’ve just met detective inspector Lestrade, who called for his help on many occasions and told me right off the bat how great he was. And of course there’s Molly -”

John gestures at Molly, who holds her hand over her mouth.

“- who always saw the best in him.”

Sherlock notices John’s fist is clenching, though the rest of his body is perfectly still. John breathes hard through his nose before resuming his speech.

“Sherlock was loved,” he says, voice faltering. “I was there when he jumped. He was loved. He was _loved_. And it hurts me… more than anything... that he didn’t know it.”

John Watson, a grown man, stands there weeping softly now. Shoulders hunched, looking at the floor, clenching his fists. The whole church is quiet, save for the ruffling sounds of handkerchiefs. Even Mycroft wipes away at his eyes. John slowly turns away to get back to his pew, facing Sherlock.

No. He - he can’t.

Sherlock stands up, staggering on his feet. The ground seems to shift. He lift his eyes up, but can’t face it - can’t face - John… He turns and flees through a side door.

The door leads into a hallway, back to the vicar’s private rooms. Sherlock leans against the wall, panting, shaking. Suddenly, Mycroft rushes in and takes him by the shoulders.

“Sherlock, you need to go back and finish…”

“He’s in the wine cellar.”

“What?”

“The real vicar. I… Locked him up. I thought I could do this but I can’t, Mycroft.”

“My people found him there ages ago,” Mycroft says. “I’m afraid to say he’s in no state to finish the service.”

Sherlock blinks.

“Shouldn’t have put a vicar in a wine cellar, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I need to tell John.”

“Tell him what? That you killed yourself in front of him, but it was just a joke? Do you think he’ll be happy?”

“It wasn’t…”

“It’s how he’ll see it. It’s too late. You need to wrap this up cleanly, and let him grieve. If you tell him you’re alive, Moriarty’s men will kill him. If you take him with you, you’ll both die. It’s that simple. We talked about this.”

Mycroft shakes Sherlock’s shoulders.

“We discussed this,” he urges.

Sherlock nods slowly, lost in thought. He can’t let John grieve like this. It’ll kill him - it’ll kill them both. He can’t leave for Belarus knowing he’s leaving behind John like this. He needs to find a way to somehow… make it right. Hint at him, that he’s still alive, perhaps.

Yes, that’s it.

He hurries back, ready for battle.

And immediately trips over his own long legs. Part of the vicar robes falls open, revealing the sparkly rainbow inside.

Damn drag outfit.

“I’m, eh, going to a gay marriage rally later,” he says apologetically, fixing the robes.

Back in the pulpit, Sherlock grabs a Bible.

“Sorry about that short intermission,” he says into the microphone. “Needed the loo.”

He flips through the pages. Christ, his religious upbringing was ages ago. Why did his parents never take him to church? Not until his death, at least.

Ah, there it is.

“Time for the traditional reading of the Bible,” he says. “This is Luke 24:6-7. _He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’”_

Sherlock looks up expectantly. But John, it seems, is just staring at his own feet.

He flips a few pages.

“Food for thought, this Bible, isn’t it. Oh, here, John 11:25-26: _Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?’_. Remarkable!”

Mycroft is glaring at him. John remains unmoving.

“Errrr…” Sherlock mumbles. “Mark! Yes, Mark. ‘ _Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him.’”_

John is staring at him intently now, eyes still red-rimmed from crying.

No. This, Sherlock can’t handle. He quickly closes the Bible, and moves on to another prayer. He flies through the amens, and announces it’s time for everyone’s communion wafers.

“While everybody comes forward to receive the Body of Christ, I shall play a fitting tune,” Sherlock says.

He presses play on his Spotify. ‘I’m Still Standing’ by Elton John.

Mycroft glares and points his iPhone at the speakers. ‘Time to Say Goodbye’ by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli.

Damn Mycroft. Sherlock blesses a few pieces of altar bread while the first few family members walk up to him. With his other hand, he points to the speakers. It quickly turns into another fight with his brother.

‘Stayin’ Alive’ by The Bee Gees.

-zap-

‘Let Her Go’ by Passenger.

-zap-

‘You’ll be Back’ from Hamilton.

-zap-

‘Hello, Goodbye’ by The Beatles.

-zap-

‘See You Soon’ by Coldplay.

-z…

Nothing. Sherlock looks to his side, and sees that John has pulled the plug from the speakers angrily. He walks back to his seat, without as much as a look at the vicar, or anyone else.

Sherlock pouts. John even waives his wafer? He must be really hurting.

“It’s now time for the, eh, final farewell,” Sherlock says after everyone has shared the bread. “Though, how much of a farewell is death really? One must wonder…”

Mycroft loudly clears his throat. Right. The secret mission. Sherlock bites his lip, and rubs his fake beard.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, facing his own casket. He should wrap this up. “You were a…”

Great? Good? Kind?

“Man.”

He blinks at himself. Is this, then, the sum of his life?

“May you rest in peace. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone repeats. Except John.

As the people leave the church and greet Sherlock’s family at the entrance, John remains in his seat, unmoving. He even sends Molly away, Sherlock observes. This is his chance… to say something. Anything.

Under the watchful - scornful - gaze of Mycroft, he approaches John and sits down in the pew next to him, not even looking at him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t move.

“That was a… beautiful speech you gave,” he adds.

An odd sound escapes John’s throat. John tries to leave, but Sherlock stands up and blocks his path.

Looking at him is almost unbearable.

“I know you are grieving,” Sherlock says, desperate for words. “And I can’t say anything to make the pain less.”

“No. You can’t,” John says, trying to move Sherlock out of the way. “Excuse me.”

“Please, your speech -”

That catches John’s attention.

“What you said… I … I’m certain Sherlock felt…”

Sherlock swallows. He is not going along for the fake cremation. It really is his last chance to say something to John. To look at him. To stop him hurting. But he can’t blow his cover. He _must_. He _can’t_.

Sherlock doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. He can feel the tears gathering in his eyes, but he can’t cry. Vicars don’t cry.

So John just sighs, shuffles past him, and leaves the church.

Sherlock, now, is truly alone. His knees start to buckle, and he lets himself fall on John’s pew, knowing that no prayer will help him now.

He stays there for hours, staring at nothing, losing the faith he never even had. Going over all events in his head. Has he made the right decision? Was there really no other way? He must leave the next morning, and tear Moriarty’s web down. Will he die on this mission? Mycroft seems to entertain the possibility. Was this his practise funeral? Will he tell John the truth eventually, after Sherlock’s death? What will John feel then?

A sudden noise startles him. Someone’s in the church - he stands up.

John.

John?

A silent figure that’s unmistakably John walks up the darkened aisle. Sherlock adjusts his vicar’s dress and fake beard and watches it happen. Watches his John walk into his life again, maybe one last time.

“Can I… Help you?” Sherlock asks.

Perhaps he forgot his phone.

“No. Yes. I was wondering…” John starts. “Well. I need to confess. Are you still working?”

John points to the wooden confessional to their right.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, surprised. “Yes, of course. I haven’t clocked out yet. Though the afternoon has been… calm.”

Christ, he should act normal, Sherlock thinks as he enters the vicar’s side of the confessional booth, and tries to open the tiny hatch that reveals another wooden shutter. Behind it, he can see the shadows compose the beautiful symphony that is John. What on earth would John need forgiveness for? He’s perfect.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” John starts.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” Sherlock asks.

“Christ, erm. My teenage years, I suppose. Yeah.”

“Oh.” Sherlock ponders on this for a minute, then decides to pretend the silence is not his own doing. “Take your time, my son.”

“It’s really quite simple… Father,” John says.

“It is?”

“I’ve been struggling with forbidden feelings.”

Sherlock straightens in his booth.

“Oh?”

“Yes, these feelings are not regular Anglican guilt, out of wedlock stuff. They’re… worse.”

“How much… worse?” Sherlock’s mouth feels suddenly very dry.

“Of the sodomite variant, to say it in a biblical way.”

Sherlock’s heart halts.

“You still there?”

“Mhm, yes,” Sherlock manages to strangle out of his throat.

“You see, I… This death has really triggered it all, made it all come up, so to speak.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, like stomach acid.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been having very strong feelings for a man, you see.”

“That’s…”

“I used to work with him, but that’s over now.”

Why is Sherlock’s hand shaking so much? He buries it in his vicar’s robes.

“We solved crimes together,” John says.

“John… D… Doctor Watson,” Sherlock says, shakily.

“He was fascinating, and so handsome, but now I can’t see him anymore.”

“Oh…” This can’t be.

“Because I no longer have a reason to work with Lestrade, you see,” John continues.

Sherlock’s heart stills. Oh. Of course. It’s not about him - why would John ever? He’s never even flirted with him. They lived together, for God’s sake. If anything could have happened, it would have, ages ago, and even then….

“Vicar?”

“Yes… Yes, I’m here,” Sherlock manages, tearing up.

“What should I do?”

Sherlock’s been asking himself the same thing. He should leave, now. And purge the world of Moriarty’s men. Perhaps never come back.

But John. He has a chance at happiness. He should take it, Sherlock tells himself.

“Well…” Sherlock says. “Go… for it.”

The hardest words he’s ever had to pronounce.

The shadow remains silent.

“Go for it?” John repeats, after a while.

“Yes, tell him how you feel, and all that. He might…” Sherlock stops, and sighs deeply. “You never know when your last chance is to…”

“What do you mean, _go for it?_ ” John says, angrily.

“What?”

“I know it’s you, you psychopath _fuck_.”

John leaves the confessional box, and opens the curtain to reveal Sherlock. He rips off Sherlock’s fake beard, then stares at the hair in his hand and turns around, whirls the beard away and kicks a chair to the floor.

“Fuck!” he says in frustration.

Sherlock exits the booth and faces him shakily.

“You’re… Not in love with Gary?”

“No!” John yells. “Greg!”

“How long have you known it was me?”

“Since your ridiculous carnaval rainbow outfit fell open,” John says, pointing. He shakes his head, and emits a short, odd laugh.

“You know, when I did that damned eulogy…” John starts.

“John-”

“Shut up. When I did my speech, you let me cry in front of all those people.”

Sherlock freezes. His heart lies dead in his chest.

“You killed yourself in front of me, and then came here dressed as a joke…” John shakes his head. “I was so angry, when I left this church.”

John picks up the chair, and moves it back to its position. He leans on it, and Sherlock can’t help but admire John’s strong arms holding it, gripping it so tight -

“John, I’m-”

John turns around. Sherlock swallows at the sight of it. Words fail.

“John.” Sherlock fumbles with his vicar’s clothes, and slides his fingers through his slicked-back hair, loosening it a bit. A single rebel curl falls onto his forehead.

“Shut up,” John commands.

Sherlock’s hands fall down in defeat, as he listens.

“I thought, to hell with him. I walked out the door, greeted your family, who were bloody _grieving_ , though barely, I must say, and I walked to the cemetery, where you would have had me bloody visiting an empty urn! And that’s where I’ve been these past few hours. I didn’t know what to do, Sherlock. I just don’t understand why you didn’t… consult me. You are the least consulting detective I know.”

Sherlock looks down. He mustn’t cry.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Are we not… Am I not your best friend?”

Sherlock looks up at once, one treacherous tear streaming down his cheek. He flinches at John’s gaze.

“You are! More than... Nobody is more important, John. Moriarty had snipers on you, and I had to do it, I had to jump, and he had to believe that - that you believed it. In a sense. It was Mycroft’s idea. It was…”

He swallows, and looks down at his fiddling hands.

“I agreed to it, though. I did it. I jumped. And then the lie was told. There was no way back, however hard I wished for it. I haven’t slept since… When I close my eyes, I hear you say the words, as you ran to my body, _let me through_ … I can hear your awful pleading for my life! I hadn’t slept, so I made this foolish plan to come to the funeral and see if you will…” Sherlock looks up. “If you’d be ok.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

They stand staring at each other, both unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t know.”

John moves his weight to his other leg - the one with the imagined limp. “Didn’t know what?”

Then, immediately, he understands, and his voice falters. “That you were loved.”

Sherlock wipes away another tear - his eyes simply refuse cooperation.

John takes a step forward, toward him. “That you were loveable.”

Sherlock lifts his arms to shield himself, tries to pull away, but John stops him. He waits patiently until Sherlock looks him in the eyes.

“You are loved,” John says. “Damn it. I can’t… I thought I’d lost you, Sherlock. Lost you forever. Our chance, my chance… There are things I haven’t said. Ever. And I thought I’d have to whisper them… to a grave.”

Sherlock stands dead still. “What things?” His voice trembles.

John leans closer, moves his hand up to Sherlock’s neck, his mouth to his ear. And in the silence of the church, a breath escapes in the midst of old and stone cold walls, a secret silently spills: “I... I love you.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, his trembling hands in John’s, as John gently kisses the salt off his cheek. Sherlock moves his head slightly, and John’s lips finally touch his, a soothing warmth in the empty grave that is a church.

This might be all a dream. This might be his last lonely hallucination before he is to leave on his mission, but Sherlock embraces it, has longed for it, relishes in it.

And thus, with a kiss, Sherlock is resurrected.

He allows John to move his hands across his body, feels John open his robe, impatient fingers tracing the edges of the cloth where Sherlock’s skin sears with each touch.

He feels John’s tongue slowly licking his way past his lips, its warmth awakening all that was dormant inside.

 _Mmhm_ , Sherlock sighs, and meets John’s tongue with pure longing, pure _need_. To be invaded. To feel all its length.

Suddenly, John retches.

“What the fuck is that?” John asks.

“A cotton ball.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to thejohnlockoutlet for the excellent pun 'vicar Trevor'. This is why I love her.
> 
> Also: a heartfelt tearful thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments on my previous works. I know not everyone does that, and that's completely fine! You do you. But they do mean the world to me, so thank you.


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